


rendezvous in blue

by poetatertot



Series: dreaming on fire [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Horrible Swim Trunks, M/M, Mentions of Apocalypse - Freeform, Swimming Pools, Unresolved Sexual Tension, night swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 23:39:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15497388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetatertot/pseuds/poetatertot
Summary: Neil and the crew go for a little midnight swim.





	rendezvous in blue

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I was gonna wait before I wrote another andreil.. but it's been so hot lately that I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Enjoy!

In Neil’s dreams, the walls call him home.

He tiptoes down a long, bare hallway and never calls back. His breaths, short and labored, puncture the air loudly—too loudly. In a moment he’ll be found.

In a minute he’ll be dead.

The walls scream in his mother’s tongue. _Get down, take the gun, don’t you know what’s good for you?_ Moaning, hoarse with hours of withstanding torture, whispers underneath and strangles him slowly. She’s in his ears, hissing at him to stay quiet and whispering goodnight and gasping her final goodbyes—  

_Thud._

The quiet beat of Neil’s heart lurches into overdrive at the sight of him. _Run,_ his mother screams. _Neil, you have to run—_

The Butcher of Baltimore smiles with all of his teeth. His cleaver gleams viciously in the low light, glinting as bright as the blue chips of his eyes; his gaze scrapes over Neil, burning him to pieces. There is nowhere left to go.

 _Neil_ , the walls moan. _Neil, you have to—_

“Neil?”

His eyes snap open.

For a moment, he’s paralyzed. Every muscle sings like a live wire, twitching and locking under his skin as if they might rip through. He parts his lips and sucks in one shallow breath, then another. His eyes are burning.

Matt stands at the end of his bed, wringing his hands. At any other time the action might be funny on someone so big, but now, Neil is grateful that he’s keeping his distance and keeping himself smaller. He doesn’t know how much more his heart can take.

He can’t for the life of him remember what he was dreaming about.

Neil sits up in bed carefully. The patch of sky visible through the skylight is all pinks and cool purples, shades of dusk spreading to soothe the day’s blisters. The colors seem especially bright without the bedroom light on. Matt’s face is awash in peach and lavender. He blinks through the dark; Neil blinks back.

“What time is it?” he croaks.

“Nearly eight. Dan’ll be calling us over for dinner soon.” Matt frowns down at his hands as if he’s just caught himself squirming. His fingers still. “There’s someone here for you.”  
  
Fear, irrational and bone-deep, washes over Neil like an ice bath. His eyes flick to the folder’s hidden cubby before he can force himself to look away. “Who?”

“Nicky. Listen, Neil—”

 _Oh._ Of course. It was just—

He swallows around the lump in his throat. “That’s fine. Tell him I’ll be out in a second.”  
  
Matt’s frown deepens. “I know it’s not my place but—well. Remember that talk we had when you first got here? About the monsters?”

_Stay out of their way. You don’t want to hang with them, trust me._

“Yes,” Neil says.

The admissal doesn’t comfort Matt. He crosses his arms and gives Neil a serious look, brow furrowing with unspoken doubt. “If you need help getting them off your back, I’m here for you. We all are. Just say the word.”

Neil’s mouth twists. The sentiment should be comforting, but it comes far too late. Andrew’s already gotten to the one tangible thing that matters to Neil; there’s no more he can do unless he rips the words out of Neil’s brain, and Neil’s mother trained him too well to allow that to happen.

“Thanks,” he tells Matt, “but I won’t be needing it.”

In a surprising act of modesty, Nicky waits for him on the porch. The bleeding sunset dyes his skin warm hues of fire and bronze, lighting the tips of his eyelashes in gold. He’s dressed in flamingo swimming trunks and a pastel polo.

Neil raises one eyebrow. Nicky shoots him a toothy smile and nudges him down the staircase.

The others wait outside the complex gate, drawstring bags and rolled towels in hand. Both Aaron and Kevin are already wearing swimming trunks; Andrew, in an unsurprising bout of what Matt calls _Andrewness,_ remains completely covered in black. A plastic bag swings lazily from two fingers.

Neil stops short. “I didn’t bring a towel.”

Andrew waves one hand airily. “We took your ineptitude into account. Come on.”

There’s no room for questions. Nobody bothers to ask Neil if he knows how to swim, or if he’d like to, and he doesn’t bother pointing out his lack of swim trunks. When Andrew issues a command, the only proper reaction is to follow it. Nothing else will do.

It’s on the tip of Neil’s tongue that Andrew has some serious control issues, but he lets it go for another day.

“You’re going to love it,” Nicky chirps, flailing his towel around. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it counts as trespassing, but the guy who owns the place killed himself a while back, so it’s open territory.”  
  
“Doesn’t that mean we should avoid it?”

The corner of Nicky’s smile sharpens. “Not if you claim it for yourself.”

It’s logic Neil can’t quite argue with. He shrugs and lets it go.

The walk through Millport feels like its own type of trespassing. In evening colors, the houses hunker down in violent silence; unboarded buildings stare with black, empty eyes, their doors hanging off hinges or punctured through by hopeful thieves. They run into no one during their trek, and no lights betray any living residents. This section of Millport is, for all intents and purposes, an effable ghost town.

Four blocks east of the Foxhole Court complex lies a small, gated community. The white rod-iron fencing rusts around its hinges and bolts; bougainvillea, once grown by aesthetic choice, smothers the sign and entry box with cruel, gnarled branches. A small, unnoticeable hole to the right of the gate betrays the secret of coming and going.

Beyond the gate, the houses noticeably swell in size. Neil walks between Andrew and Kevin, taking in the painted mailboxes and third-story landings that once housed Millport’s finest. He can’t imagine where they’ve all gone, but the leaving was unquestionably unpleasant. Cars stand sentinel in driveways; garages remain half-open, wrenched partway down in abandoning fervor.

The irony of it all tastes bittersweet. Most people ran in hopes of finding someplace better; Neil ran in hopes of finding someplace bad enough to be left alone.

What’s more, having hopped across several continents, Neil can confidently say that there _is_ no better. Those who up and left their fancy pools and multiple balconies weren’t going to find anything to help them sleep at night in the Bahamas or Europe; they were fucked regardless of location.

But then what was he doing here, three thousand miles from where he’d been born?

 _Well,_ he supposes, it doesn’t really matter. They were, as one newscaster said, all headed down the pipes anyway.

Andrew stops outside a creamy two-balcony residence. All of the windows are shut and locked; in the driveway, a single car remains. Rust bleeds from its insides down onto the pavement. _Derelict._

It doesn’t take much to jimmy the side gate open and slip into the backyard. The lock makes no sound—evidence that they’d most likely greased it—and clicks shut quietly behind them.

“How many times have you been here?” Neil asks. Kevin walks in sure strides, stepping out onto the back patio like he owns the place. Aaron makes a beeline for a shed, pulling out pool noodles and what looks like a deflated inner tube. Nicky tears off his shirt.

“Enough.” Andrew tosses him the plastic bag. “Go change inside.”

The sliding glass is unlocked— more of Andrew’s work. Neil steps through a disturbingly pristine kitchen and follows a hallway covered in dusty photos before he finds a bathroom. He sets the bag on the ground and finally pulls it open.

Bright, blindingly orange.

Neil drops the fabric. It has to be a mistake—but of course it isn’t. Someone had either taken the liberty of playing games or had a worse fashion sense than Neil himself.

Someone with neon flamingo shorts.

“Christ,” he mutters. But he doesn’t have anything else. He tears off his shorts and trades them in.

Andrew’s mouth knifes up at one corner the second he sees him. His hands curl in his lap; one leg, thrown up on the patio’s umbrella table, twitches like he wants to smash it through the glass.

“Oh, Neil,” Nicky laughs. He’s already in the pool with Aaron. “They fit you perfectly.”

“You look ridiculous,” Kevin says, matter-of-fact. Nicky laughs harder.

The swim trunks are not only highlighter orange, but also patterned with little smiling foxes like a pair of joke underwear. They cling to Neil’s thighs and his butt far more than any of the pants he owns, rustling with his movements the way polyester is wont to do. Neil hates it immediately.

Neil crosses his arms over his chest. He’s deigned to keep his shirt on— not even Andrew could ask him to divest it for bare skin. The jagged scars under his clothes aren’t for others to see yet, even though Neil is almost positive Andrew knows they’re there. He’s in no mood to answer any questions.

He scowls at Andrew. “What, you’re not going in?”

Andrew lifts one eyebrow. “And ruin my clothes? Pass.”  
  
“But that’s—” He swallows an irritated sigh. What did he expect? “So you’re just going to watch us swim.”

“Of course.”

“Seems a little too creepy, even for you.”  
  
“I’m full of surprises.” Andrew sinks down further into his seat, cracking the tab on a Coke Aaron brought. “Run along, little fox.”

The water is—surprisingly warm. Neil floats on his back and runs his fingers over the surface, marveling at how clear it comes out over his skin. Whatever cleaning system the pool runs on must still work. He wonders, briefly, if that’s Andrew’s doing too.

Only half of the pool lights still work. Blue shimmers over Kevin’s face, lighting up the black mark on his cheekbone; Neil ducks in and out of the dark spot on the deep end, darting under Aaron’s legs. They play with the pool noodles, slapping and shoving at each other, and the fight devolves into a mess of arms and legs and billowing wet clothes.

Neil’s eyes burn from chlorine. Water is everywhere—sliding under his shirt, slipping over the sensitive hairs on his arms and legs and in between his toes. He pushes off the pool floor and darts through the water like a knife, rising to the surface as a bird in flight.

The stars above seem so far away. He lies on his back and reaches up with one arm to trace constellations, trailing wet fingers from one bright point to the next. His breath sounds so loud in his ears like this, every breath anchoring him to the scoop of water that they’ve marked as their own. He’s blissfully, wonderfully, spectacularly _nothing._

Backstroke is a second nature. He carves backwards through the water and lets the others play around him. For now, hovering just on top of the surface is enough for him.

The end comes all too soon. Nicky splashes water over Neil’s face, nudging him to right himself, and gestures to the edge of the pool. Kevin and Aaron are already out toweling themselves.

“It’s time,” he says, smiling apologetically. “Hey, maybe we’ll come back soon if you ask Andrew.”

Or, Neil thinks, he could just come back by himself. “Maybe.”

When he climbs out of the pool, he can’t help the prickle of self-consciousness at how his shirt clings to his torso. He takes the proffered towel and wraps it around his shoulders immediately. The effect is that his bottom half is exposed, wet shorts clinging to his legs like they’re painted on.

Andrew gives him a bored once-over and whips out a cigarette to light. “You’ll give us away dripping like that. Dry off right, would you?” He balances the stick between his lips and jumps up, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Catch up when you’re done.” He’s out and away before anyone can protest.

Nicky watches him go. He turns back to Neil, giving him another toothy smile, and jogs to catch up. The others follow.

Then it’s just Neil and the pool, a glimmering black eye in the night.

.

That night, the dream comes again.

The walls scream and reach for Neil with bloody, wet hands. He can feel fingernails, echoes of old blows landing on his neck and shoulders. Something hot drips down his face and slides across his lips; he opens his mouth and tastes his own blood.

This time, when Nathaniel appears at the end of the hall, he waits. His cleaver gleams as bright as those eyes, but he doesn’t reach for Neil. He smiles and smiles, watching, waiting.

And then Andrew is there.

It shouldn’t make any sense—it makes none at all. Neil opens his mouth to yell but the walls yell louder, howling like they want to split his eardrums open. _Stupid,_ they scream. _Neil you stupid boy, I fucking told you—_

Andrew turns. His expression is flat, empty as the first night on the roof. Dark eyes turned to ash, a thin line of a full mouth. He is the darkness taken shape, blonde hair seeping oil like a leaking gas tank.

He takes Neil’s hand. The walls shiver and begin to weep.

This time, when Nathaniel comes for them, the world loses its shape. The ground ripples and bends in, filling up with chlorinated water faster than Neil can take a breath. He’s drowning, suspended in the dark, linked to the only other person in the world by trembling, tenuous fingers.

Andrew cuts through. His hand squeezes tight around Neil’s, holding fast even when the water presses in on Neil’s lungs. He can still hear his mother, muffled through it all. _Stupid, stupid._ Andrew squeezes tighter.

And then the light is pouring in, splitting apart the dark into tiny droplets, and Neil is gasping, struggling for air. Awake.

.

The pool flits in and out of his thoughts for a week. July’s end means daily highs scaling with the sun, beating down on the Foxes as they make their morning runs, soaking into their skins when they come out of the excavated rec center that doubles as their court. Salt perpetually rests on Neil’s lips; he lays awake at night and sweats on top of all his blankets.

It wouldn’t be difficult to go back by himself. He doesn’t need anyone’s permission to slip away and swim for a bit; he’d leave after dinner and come back before midnight. All he has to do is find the time to break from the group.

It’s easier said than done. If it isn’t practice or doing community service for what’s left of Millport’s donating citizens, it’s the upperclassmen inviting him to movie night or the monsters pulling him into their apartment to hang out. Every time he steps out into the courtyard, he can feel someone’s eyes on him, tracking his movements to the laundry room or into Wymack’s to drop off community reports. He suspects, based on the smoke that curls above the rooftops, that it’s probably Andrew.

But then Thursday evening creeps up, and Neil doesn’t care anymore.

All of the upperclassmen are out—something about a grocery run—and the monsters are just audible enough for Neil to know they won’t come bug him. He slips his terrible trunks into his backpack with a secondhand towel and makes a run for it.  

The back patio looks frightening without any of the pool lights on, but he leaves them be. If anyone sees the light and comes by, it would be better for him to be unseen; he can’t afford to be caught alone, vulnerable, backlit by seven feet of water. Neil is good but not _that_ good.

He slips in without a sound. The water rushes up his shirt to dry skin, licking at his heated flesh to cool it. He lets his eyes fall shut, sighing softly. It feels just as good as he imagined it would.

Without the others, Neil has all the space he needs to swim properly. He tests the waters, floating onto his back and arching his arms the way his mother taught him so long ago, pushing into a hesitant rhythm. Water drips from his fingertips in glittering, dark droplets.

Swimming alone gives him time to think—a dangerous act if he ever knew one. The tangle of his thoughts is often too big for him to bother unraveling; he prefers focusing on the now, pounding pavement with his footsteps and taking shots on the court. He doesn’t want to dwell on his father still living large in Vegas, or how he’s settled into the Foxhole Court so quickly. He doesn’t want to think about what it all means.

He doesn’t want to think about Andrew—dark inside and out, watching him, unblinking, even with all that he knows—and how it feels to have him on his tail. It’s dangerous letting him get so close. Andrew is all knives pointing out, blades sharpened to cut, and Neil has too many scars to even dare falling on them. He should be staying as far away from him as possible.

But he _can’t._

When did things start to change—or had it been like this since the beginning? Andrew carries Neil’s secrets as well as he carries his own; he threatens to spill them, sure, but the words never fall out. Neil knows he wouldn’t actually do it either. He likes to think he might know him well enough now to be sure.

Because Andrew is complicated. He bares his teeth at the sky and dares it to fall on him, but won’t let any of his people wander without him at their backs. He’s always on the lookout for trouble, always making sure the Court’s locks are steady and that everyone stays suspicious. He doesn’t let anyone get complacent enough for passing thieves to make their mark.

He goes to all of the trouble of finding a pool safe for them to use, but doesn’t swim in it himself.

Neil blinks; the stars blink back.

“Going for a dip?”

He lets out a soft breath. “So?”

“You aren’t making it easy on me.”

“I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“Oh, Neil. You don’t ask for _anything_.”

He tips his head back just a bit further. At the edge of the pool Andrew stands, a lit cigarette balanced between two fingers. He looks thoroughly unimpressed with Neil’s trip across town. In the middle of the night. Alone.

But to be fair, Neil really hadn’t asked for Andrew to follow him.

Andrew sits cross legged at the pool’s edge and leans back on one hand. With his lit cigarette between his lips and his head tilted back to the moon, Neil gets a perfect view of his jawline, the curve of his exposed throat. He rolls over in the water to get a proper look.

Smoke curls away into the dark. “Now who’s watching who?”

“You’re the one who came all the way out here.”

“Only because you’re too stupid to watch your own back.” Andrew takes a drag. “Swimming in the dark? Do you really think that would save you if someone wanted to kill you?”

“I can take care of myself,” Neil retorts. “I got all the way out here, didn’t I?”

“Your tragic backstory begs to differ. If someone doesn’t keep their eye on you you’ll disappear into thin air, and you made a promise.” He pauses to take another drag, dark eyes moving to lock with Neil’s. “Or did you forget?”

How could he? Hands clasped at his throat, words bitten at his ear. _You gave your game to Kevin. Give your back to me._

Neil shivers. “No.”

“I hope not.”

Silence spreads between them, syrupy and thick with the night’s heat. Neil drifts back and forth in the pool a little longer; Andrew leans and dips his fingers into the water, slipping them across the surface while he sucks down the last of his cigarette. The air shivers between them.

When Neil finally wrenches himself from the pool it’s to flop back on the edge, his legs still dangling in. He lays back, arms propped behind his head, to breathe in fading cigarette smoke and the faintest whisper of ocean salt. Somewhere beyond Millport’s godforsaken buildings and the scorched hills surrounding them is the sea. He hasn’t seen it yet, but he knows it has to be there.

He wonders if they’ll ever be able to go see it.

“Have you ever been in it?”

One of Andrew’s eyebrows lifts. “The pool?”

“The ocean.”

“Hmm.” Andrew tosses his stub into the bushes. “What difference does it make?”

“I don’t know. Just wondered if you’d ever gone.” One corner of Neil’s mouth lifts. “Or can you not swim? Is that why you won’t get in?”

“I have my reasons.”

“But _can_ you?” The idea, while a little ridiculous, could almost be plausible. Andrew, indomitable on land but a deadweight in the water. He imagines him at the beach, barely visible above the giant waves, and can’t help grinning at the thought. “You can’t. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“I can swim, thank you very much.” Andrew is scowling now, fixing Neil with an icy look. “I just choose not to is all.”  
  
“You’re afraid of the water. You don’t want to get wet.”

“Try again, Josten.”

“You know you’ll lose to me in a race.”

Andrew’s eyes narrow to a squint. “You’re not worth my time.”  
  
Neil’s mouth twitches up higher at the corners. “So you know you’ll lose?”

They look at each other for a long moment. Neil keeps completely still, his lips aching to pull into a smile. He can feel his blood beginning to rush under his skin, forcing a buzzing into his fingertips and toes that is oh-so familiar but _not_ , because none of the fear is there. It feels almost like being on the court, but it’s just him and Andrew. _Alone._

Andrew tears his gaze away to glare at the water and Neil knows he’s won. He sits up and watches as Andrew slips off his sneakers before coming to stand at the water’s edge. His sock-covered toes wiggle over the lip of the pool.

It occurs to Neil belatedly that Andrew didn’t bring anything with him. “Wait, what about your—”

_Splash._

For a moment, there’s nothing but the silence of caught breath and churning bubbles. A dark shadow ripples below the surface, shapeless and odd. Neil waits.

When Andrew emerges, he pulls the moonlight down into the water with them. There’s white in his slick-backed hair, on his wet skin, in the bared bones of his teeth; there’s ink in his skin-tight clothes, in the lukewarm water, spreading outward from him like a stain. He’s a black-and-white photograph of angles.

Neil should be a little wary, maybe, but he can’t quite make himself pull back. His heart is pumping furiously, but the goosebumps on his skin aren’t from anxiety, or cold. He’s caught in Andrew’s image like a fish on a hook.

They didn’t think this through it all, he thinks dazedly. What were they doing here?

“Giving up before we even started? How unlike you, Josten.”

Neil rips his gaze away. The image of Andrew, soaked and slick, burns in his brain like an afterimage. “Come on.”

They start in the shallow end side by side. Neil squints at the deep end of the pool; it can’t be more than a couple meters away.

“First one to do a full lap,” he suggests. Andrew grunts.

“What do I get when I win?”

Neil side eyes him. “You want a prize?”

“I want a truth.”

Water laps quietly at stone walls. The trees rattle like old bones. Neil lets out a sigh between his teeth.

“Fine,” he grits. “Winner takes a truth.”

What Andrew doesn’t know is that Neil swims almost as well as he runs. He’s a body born in motion, hardwired to handle any kinesthetic puzzle thrown his way, and he doesn’t take to being cornered. When they launch off the side—who calls the mark, Neil doesn’t know—he reaches forward and tears through the water, propelling himself with legs powered half by muscle memory and half by sheer desperation. That truth is _his._

And for a little while, he lets himself get lost again. Bubbles rush past his face; he sucks quick breaths from the side that faces away from Andrew. Snapshots of the poolside, empty and dark, flit through his brain and roll away like discarded trash. He turns, twists, propels himself back. He’s going to win.

Triumph is halfway off his lips when he launches up, propelling himself into standing again, and Andrew is already there, shoulders relaxed even with his fists clenched tight. He looks as if he never moved, save for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. He drips water freely and raises one eyebrow.

“My truth?”

“How—” Neil chews his words. “You cheated.”

Andrew’s gaze darkens. “Me? Never.”

They size each other up.

“We’ll trade instead,” he bites out. “A truth for a truth.”  
  
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”  
  
“Neither was cheating.”

“Who said I did?” Dark eyes rake over Neil, and he can’t suppress an involuntary shiver. It occurs to him too late that his shirt is stuck to him like a second skin. “You can’t prove anything.”

“You can’t prove that you didn’t.”

“Funny,” Andrew murmurs, slipping closer. His eyes are twin black holes. “I knew you were a liar, but a sore loser too? You’re almost as bad as Kevin.”

“Don’t talk to me about Kevin,” Neil growls. He’s already spent too many hours slaving, patronized in the man’s shadow, to talk about it in his free time.

“Then own up to it. I want my truth.”  
  
“What do you _want?”_

Andrew stills. He’s close enough to reach out and touch Neil, tapping him on the sternum with one finger. “Your shirt.”

“My..” Neil looks down at himself. It’s an old grey thing, barely holding together by worn threads. “You don’t have any use for it.”  
  
“Ah ah.” The finger trails up, tucks into the collar against Neil’s skin and pulls it away. Air rushes in; he can feel goosebumps rising underneath, his skin livening to the whispering touch. “What’s underneath, Josten.”

The demand would be uncomfortable from anyone else—would be embarrassing if not for the way Andrew looks at him like he might sink his teeth into Neil’s flesh. Neil parts his lips to speak but no words come to mind. Dark eyes stare, taking him in, burning him to ashes.

He lets out a quiet breath. “Fine.”

Taking his shirt off is too easy. The fabric peels away from him, ripping body heat from skin, sliding up and over his head in a single, fluid motion. He lets it fall into the water beside him.

Andrew takes him in. He doesn’t move. Neil can see his eyes, all pupil and darkness, carefully cataloging knotted tissue and leftover bullet scars, the swathes of warped, pink tissue raised above olive skin.

He wets his lips. “These ouches look a little rough for a child on the run.”

Neil twitches. “I might have left out some critical details.” He doesn’t waste his breath explaining; Andrew doesn’t ask.

The seconds tick by. Andrew looks and looks, head cocking from one side to the other. He licks his lips again.

And then, slow enough that Neil could stop him, he raises one hand and stretches out his fingers to hover above Neil’s skin.

“Yes,” he breathes, “or no?”

Neil’s eyes flick up to meet his. White lashes; black pools. He can see the outline of his reflection in them.

He swallows hard. “Yes.”

The first touch is tentative—barest brushes of heat against his collarbone, a warm whisper against cool skin. He presses, firmer. Two fingers, three, swiping condensation from the hollow in his throat. Neil doesn’t dare breathe.

Andrew’s eyes flicker up to his. His lips press together and part, ever so gently. There’s moisture there that Neil’s gaze is drawn to, shiny and bright on pink lips.

 _Look away_ , he tells himself. _Look away._

Andrew holds his gaze. His hand slips down, down, tracing the length of his sternum in careful paint brush strokes. Muscles twitch under his touch, abs clenching and breath stretching thin. Neil is lightheaded, hovering somewhere halfway out of his skin.

Slowly, carefully, his hand stops above the line of Neil’s trunks. Fingers spread; he presses his palm flat. Something hot roils inside Neil’s veins—a fissure suddenly formed, hot magma stirring to life. He’s too warm for the night air, goosebumps raised on every inch of his skin. He’s dizzy, disoriented, but oh-so-incredibly anchored right here, right now.

“Well.” Andrew’s voice rumbles, gravel crunching over stone. “This has been educational.”

Neil blinks. He’s already moving away, stepping backwards into the deeper end. The water swallows him in a hungry, heavy rush. His eyes have become black pits, inky pins that puncture Neil and pin him like a butterfly to a corkboard.

“Your turn,” Andrew tells him, and for a moment a thousand images rush into Neil’s brain, heady and vivid and confusing. What would it be like to bridge that distance, to reach out and touch him the way he’d just been touched? What would it be like to place one palm against the soft looking, pale skin at Andrew’s neck, or the hair at his nape?

He thinks of Andrew’s mouth, red and wet. What would it be like to lean in, and—

_And—_

He sucks in air. It’s too much all at once; his brain swims, his heart crashes against his ribs. He sways on the spot.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. Oh. So that’s what this is.

“I—” He coughs, tries again. “I’m saving it. For later.”

Andrew’s mouth twists almost imperceptibly. Neil watches, transfixed, as the ripple in his jaw crawls down his neck and arm to his fist.

“Really. Well, in that case—” Andrew jerks his chin up at the sky, where the moon is reaching its zenith, “—we should be going. Too much later and your guard will come running.”

Neil bites down on a retort. How ironic that statement is, coming from him. “Fine.”

They drag themselves out of the pool slowly. Andrew reaches Neil’s towel first; he rubs it over his head, pressing extra water from his hair, and tosses it back for Neil to catch.

“But what about your—”

“Worry about yourself, Josten. Are you going to go back looking like that?”

Because of course _now_ , when Neil is obviously in the middle of a crisis, Andrew would choose to take the high ground. He rarely does, but he won’t even look Neil in the eye anymore. He waits for him to dry off with his back turned, face tilted up to stare at the moon.

The walk back is silent. Andrew drifts ahead just enough that Neil can’t get a good look at his face. His shadow crawls over the pavement, bulkier and slightly shorter than Neil’s own, fists clenched and shoulders tightened into a stocky block of ink. Neil can’t find the words for what he wants to say—he doesn’t know what he would if he could—so he stays quiet and lets his brain roll around this new discovery.

He hopes this doesn’t change things. There is so much left that he has to uncover before he can begin tackling _this_ , and Andrew is—well.

Andrew is a sharpened blade aimed to kill. He’s a dangerous animal, all signs pointing to keep a wide berth and not try to feed him. He’s all predator. Neil has no business in dealing with him.

Still, he can’t help but trail his gaze over him all the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is appreciated! or come say hi on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [title ref](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dN054SnYu8) / [playlist for this series](https://open.spotify.com/user/xelaperez36/playlist/59jW12FLhAIpr97AvwOoLm?si=5aSqnDwvRtmaHLgbes_qGQ)


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